


A Shrike to Your Sharp and Glorious Thorn

by Neeka



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Deathfic, Regret, how 'it' could happen, whisperer arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 08:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15945887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neeka/pseuds/Neeka
Summary: Sometimes, everything just goes wrong.





	A Shrike to Your Sharp and Glorious Thorn

 

Bites on above  
But never would form  
Like a cry at the final breath that is drawn  
Remember me love, when I'm reborn  
As a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn

 

\------

 

Negan had escaped. That evil, twisted son of a bitch had escaped, taking advantage of an angry, grieving boy to do so then killing him and leaving his body in the dirt. It shouldn’t have surprised Paul, what with how sick he already knew Negan to be, no matter what he tried to show during his incarceration, but sometimes Negan still managed to shock him with how easy such senseless cruelty was to him. 

Paul, Daryl and Michonne had set out hot on his trail as soon as Rick found out; Paul and Michonne on their horses and Daryl leading them on his bike, stopping every now and then to make sure they were still following him. They’d passed Brandon’s body not too long ago and he hadn’t yet turned, making the three of them quicken their pace. The bastard couldn’t be too far now. 

Personally, Paul would be happy to kill him as soon as they set eyes on him and he knew Daryl felt that burning desire even more. Michonne would probably push for them to drag him back to his cell like Rick wanted, but there was no way Paul was willing to risk their lives to do it. If he struggled, he was dead. He’d been living on borrowed time as it was. 

Paul just hoped Maggie didn’t have to hear about it until Negan was either dead or recaptured. She’d suffered enough because of that bastard. 

Paul fixed his eyes on Daryl’s back as the man sped ahead in front of them, wishing he could calm his mind somehow, to bring him some measure of comfort. Daryl had been waiting for this day, had all but thrown that fact in Rick’s face before they set off, and Paul knew all of those old feelings of anger and betrayal were back in the forefront of his mind. As were the horrors Negan had inflicted on him and the people he loved. 

So many times, the pain Daryl had gone through in his life made Paul rage inside, wishing he could take it away from him. Now they had one of the main figures of Daryl’s nightmares back out in the free world, potentially about to tear their whole world apart once more. The Whisperers were a terrible threat as it was, they didn’t need Negan added to their ranks, not with the knowledge he’d undoubtedly picked up about their communities. If he joined them, Paul wasn’t sure they’d survive it.  

It was late afternoon when they left the open fields and roads and finally started to come across scarce cars and houses, getting denser as they continued on. Daryl slowed his bike to a crawl, Paul and Michonne doing the same with their horses, each of them ready and alert. 

Daryl snapped to attention in front of them, eyeing the ground and Paul could see there’d been activity through there recently. He looked around and nodded at Paul and Michonne, all of them dismounting and readying their weapons, inching closer to each other and keeping a line of sight in all directions. 

At the first noise, they drew in tight, backs together as they faced outwards with their weapons ready. Their horses panicked and ran off as walkers started to appear between the houses and cars, all heading towards them. Michonne dispatched the first with a graceful swipe of her sword, Paul stabbing the next and Daryl shooting as many as he could with his crossbow before he had to abandon it for close range weapons. But the walkers weren’t alone. 

“Whisperers!” Paul called out, taking out one with a knife, grabbing the weapon and throwing it into the head of another.

Walkers and Whisperers seemed to stream from everywhere, easily outnumbering them. They had to break formation after that, dodging and killing both kinds of enemies, watching each other’s backs as they did, all three of them moving seamlessly together. Paul was feeling fairly confident with their chances as they dispatched the rest of the walkers and working on the last few Whisperers until a new group of them appeared from between two houses, led by a formidable looking figure. 

He was easily one of the largest men Paul had ever seen; tall and physically intimidating in a half walker skin mask, long black coat and wielding two large, nasty looking knives. He walked towards them with slow, confident steps as the rest of the Whisperers rushed forwards and attacked the three of them.

“Call of the dogs,” Michonne called to him as she raised her sword and parried the blade of her newest attacker. “We didn’t come here to fight!”

“You know us?” The large figure asked, voice deep and gravely.

“A fugitive of ours crossed your border,” Paul said, stabbing two Whisperers in the head as they rushed him, “we’re just trying to capture him! He’s incredibly dangerous. Once we do, we’ll leave.”

“Alpha was very clear, no one crosses out borders.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Daryl growled in frustration, taking on his own adversaries, “we don’t wanna fight. Just gotta find our damn prisoner then we’ll go!”

The leader just shook his head and advanced towards Daryl, far quicker than someone his size should be able to. “I am Beta. And it is too late for that now,” he said, then he attacked. 

Paul knew for sure then that the man could fight; he moved quick and sure, held his body and blades differently to the rest. Michonne and Daryl were both formidable fighters in their own right but Paul couldn’t chance them taking this giant on. As long as there was any risk at all that he’d beat them, Paul wouldn’t allow either of them anywhere near him. 

Moving as quick as he could, Paul dodged in front of Daryl, delivering a fierce kick to Beta’s torso, only his martial arts training even allowing him to get his leg that fucking high. The man staggered back slightly, but quickly regained his balance before he lashed out with his knives, Paul meeting him strike for strike. 

“Paul,” he heard Daryl shout, but he didn’t have the spare brain power to answer, contenting himself with the brief flash he saw of Daryl safe and fighting, he and Michonne working together to pick of the rest of the Whisperers and the walkers attracted to their noise. 

Paul parried each strike of the man’s blades, using all of his strength to hold him at bay, managing to land a slice at Beta’s leg. He wasn’t as skilled as Paul, but he had size and brute strength on his side, sending his own kick at Paul’s side. He blocked it with his arms, hoping to dampen the blow some, but it still sent him staggering backwards.

He was grateful for it when he saw Michonne taking on three Whisperers, another sneaking behind her with a knife as she was distracted.

Daryl was too far away to help, too busy with his own fight to notice. Paul didn’t have time for shouting, it’d only distract her even more anyway, so he did the only thing he could. He threw one of his knives at the Whisperers’ head, the body dropping the floor just behind her. 

He didn’t feel the pain at first. It felt more like pressure, twin points of it in his stomach and side. 

Looking back to Beta, Paul finally realised he’d been stabbed. The man pulled the knives out viciously, blades dripping in blood as his mouth twisted in smug satisfaction. 

The pain hit then, but he’d be damned if he let it stop him. With a last push of energy, Paul lashed out and sliced Beta down his face, the man’s shouts filling him with his own vicious satisfaction. 

He could barely breathe though, feeling the hot blood pouring out of him and drenching his shirt. Beta growled in anger and raised his knife to strike again, only to be stopped by a smattering of gunfire. 

Dante and his group had found them. Somehow, they were here, aiming at Whisperers and walkers like. Paul dodged Beta’s last wide arc of his knife before he and the remaining three Whisperers retreated, rushing between the houses and out of sight. 

He could hear Michonne talking with Dante, could hear his group stabbing the odd walker still left. Paul turned to check on them, relief flooding him as he saw Daryl was fine, that everyone was. He looked down at his torso with a distant, morbid fascination, lifting his hands to cover the wounds as best he could. 

Blood poured between his fingers, far too much blood. But it was okay, Michonne was safe, Daryl was safe. Whatever happened to him was okay so long as they lived. He was content with that. 

His legs started to lose their strength from the pain and the blood loss. It was okay though. It was him, not them, so it was all okay. 

“Jesus?”

The breathy horror of Michonne’s voice made him look away from his own blood covered chest, meeting her wide eyes. 

Then all the strength left him and he sank to the floor. 

It was okay though. It was just him, so it was okay. 

 

\------

 

“Jesus?”

That one simple world brought the world crashing about Daryl’s ears, the horror so clear in Michonne’s voice that he knew what’d happened before he even turned around. It didn’t make the sight of Paul collapsing to the ground any less physically painful. 

“Paul!”

Daryl was by his side before he’d even realised he’d moved, the thick, overpowering smell of blood turning his stomach. Daryl gently rolled him onto his back, a broken groan escaping him as he saw the sheer volume of blood staining Paul’s front from the twin stab wounds. 

“Paul, come on, stay with me now!” He begged as he put pressure on the wounds, the blood thick between his fingers. Michonne dropped to her knees beside them both, smacking Daryl’s hands out of the way as she shed her over-shirt, tore it in half and folded it up, pressing them both to each wound. She shouted to the group of their fighters asking for anything to use as a bandage but Daryl stopped listening, an overwhelming ringing in his head as he looked at Paul’s pale, prone form. 

It was too much blood. The wounds were- Paul might-

A pained groan left Paul, his eyes fluttering.

“Come on Paul,” he encouraged, grabbing Paul’s hand, “that’s it, wake up now. Hang in there, we’re gonna get you help. You’ll be fine.”

His eyes opened, half lidded and faraway. “Not- not so sure Daryl,” he forced out, voice quiet and full of pain even as he gently stroked his thumb against the back of Daryl’s hand. 

“Nah, fuck that! You’ll be _fine_!”

But Paul was already slipping back into unconsciousness, hand going limp again in his. 

“Daryl,” Michonne said quietly, looking at him with pity and sorrow, “it’s not good.”

Panic was welling up in him followed closely by anger. “Don’t mean shit! Just need to slow this bleedin’ and I’ll get him back to Hilltop! Ain’t no fuckin’ way he’s dying!”

Still her face didn’t change and Daryl wanted to scream and rage in his panic and pain. 

“ _Please_ Michonne,” he begged roughly, “I can’t let him die.”

She squeezed her eyes shut with a sigh, but nodded all the same. “We’ll try Daryl, that’s all we can do. But whatever happens, you can’t blame yourself.”

He would and they both knew it. She turned away and shouted for the group to hurry up with the bandages as Daryl turned his attention back to Paul. He was beyond pale, skin almost grey, the only colour the bright red all down his front. Daryl had never hated any colour more. 

He’d been so fucking _stupid_. So stupid and so scared, two steps forward and one step back, always pulling away when he should have run forward. And now it could be too late.

Paul was hurt, was hurt _so_ bad and Daryl felt like his chest was caving in. What’d been the point of all that if it still ended like this? 

Dante skidded next to them, arms full of torn up strips of cloth. Michonne ripped Paul’s shirt open and Daryl made an animal noise of pain as the full extent of Paul’s wound were shown. Dual knife wounds, one in his stomach and one in his side. 

“Shit,” he heard Dante say. 

“I know,” Michonne replied, sorrow in her voice. Like he was as good as dead already. “Daryl, can you hold him up whilst we bandage him?”

He didn’t reply, throat feeling too choked to even breathe let alone speak, but he nodded, slipping an arm under Paul’s head and lifting him up, the other still keeping its tight grip on Paul’s hand. As Michonne and Dante went about wrapping the makeshift bandages around his wounds, Daryl just focused on the feel of Paul heavy in his arms. 

He felt more than heard the pained groan as Paul came back around. Daryl stroked a hand along the back of his neck, trying to offer some tiny bit of comfort. “‘S okay Paul, nearly done. Gonna get you back to Hilltop now okay? Be just fine. You just hang on. Please.”

“I’ll... try,” he breathed out, fingers tightening and twitching in Daryl’s grip. 

“Done,” Michonne said at last, “you need to hurry though. He’ll soak through that soon and he’s already lost a dangerous amount.”

Daryl didn’t need telling twice, letting go of Paul’s hand with a final squeeze before he slipped that arm under his knees. It wasn’t easy; Paul was short but all muscle, far heavier than he looked, but with the help of Dante he managed to stand up, holding Paul’s too still body tight against his as he moved as quickly as he could towards his bike. 

“Easy now,” Daryl reassured him as he and Dante got Paul sat on the bike, Michonne coming over to help him stay upright as Daryl quickly got on behind him, bracketing him with his arms as he reached for the handlebars. Paul slumped back against his chest with a groan, arms folded around his stomach. 

The sight and sound of Paul in pain cut Daryl to the bone, starting the bike with an apology as it jolted him. The whole ride was going to be agony for him and Daryl would have done _anything_ to swap places. 

Dante grasped Paul’s shoulder but didn’t say a word, couldn’t it seemed. His eyes were glassy though, mouth set in a deep, sorrowful frown. Michonne all but ordered Paul to hang on, running a quick hand over his hair before she grabbed Daryl’s arm and leant in.

“I’m so sorry Daryl,” was all she said. It was enough. It was too much. 

He wrapped one arm around Paul as gently as he could, avoiding his wounds before he gunned the engine and sped off. 

Daryl pushed his bike as quick as it would go, eating up the land with greedy abandon. It never seemed fast enough though, the distant horizon never getting any closer. 

Paul was mostly conscious, Daryl could feel him breathing sharp and short, trying to muffle his agonised groans whenever the bike went over a bump. Daryl had to keep reminding himself he was helping, was going to get him help and for that, he had to keep going, even if it caused Paul pain. 

At one point, he felt Paul start to slump into him too heavily, going still and quiet as Daryl’s stomach plummeted in fear.

“Hey,” he called over the wind, the arm still wrapped around Paul jolting him as much as was safe, “don’t you dare Paul, stay awake, come on!”

“...sorry...” Paul mumbled after a few terrifying seconds, gripping Daryl’s hand and squeezing, keeping hold as they kept moving. It was the only sign that Paul was still there as they continued on. 

The sun was beginning it’s descent when Daryl felt Paul let go of his hand, tugging his sleeve sharply instead, Daryl slowing the bike just enough to hear him over the engine and the rushing wind.

“Stop,” Paul panted out, voice tight and weak, “please stop... jus’ a second.”

“Can’t, gotta get you to Hilltop.”

Daryl felt Paul’s hand close around his own again. “ _Please_ , need to... say somethin’.”

A fresh wave of dread spread through him. “No, no way! Can tell me when we’re at Hilltop. When you’re okay.”

“Daryl...”

That one quiet word from Paul tore through him. It was enough to have him slowly, reluctantly bring the bike to an idling stop, pain burning through him so fierce it was like he _had_ found a way to change their places. 

“Thank you,” Paul forced out, weakly squeezing Daryl’s hand. Daryl said nothing, just pulled him a little tighter against him as he waiting with cold, numb dread for Paul to speak. 

“Not gonna make it back Daryl... both know that. ‘S okay. Just how it goes. You’re okay, so it’s... fine.”

“It ain’t,” Daryl all but moaned, clenching his eyes shut against the burn in them. “Don’t want you to- you _can’t_. Gotta keep it together Paul, for me.”

“Do... anythin’ for you Daryl. Jus’ don’t think this is... my choice now.”

He sounded so weak, so exhausted. Even the pain seemed to be leaving his voice now. It wasn’t fair, he didn’t deserve this. Paul ran his thumb over the back of Daryl’s hand so gently Daryl wanted to scream, wanted to shout and rage against the world for allowing this to happen, for letting someone so special and needed just... leave.

“Always... had a thing for you, you know?”

Daryl only just managed to choke back the sob in his throat. Paul said it with as much lightness as he could but Daryl could see through it. It was more than that, they both knew it. He was just trying to spare Daryl.

But Paul was- he was dying. Nothing could cause him more pain at this point. So instead he pressed a kiss into Paul’s hair.

“‘M sorry. ‘M so sorry,” he choked out, voice thick with the strain of keeping his tears back, “know you was waitin’ on me. Was too scared. It’s my fault. Thought there’d be more time.”

With a quiet groan of effort, Paul forced himself to twist in his seat, just enough to look up at Daryl. His skin was grey, lips utterly colourless apart from a small trickle of blood coming out of the side. Daryl wiped it away. 

“Sorry there wasn’t,” Paul said softly, “sorry to... do this. Maybe we’ll get... another chance. Somewhere out there. Parallel universes or... some shit. We were just... unlucky.”

Daryl did sob then, a broken, jagged thing as he slumped over and pressed his face into the space between Paul’s neck and shoulder. “Don’t go,” he spoke against Paul’s skin, “don’t go yet. Let me save you. Please don’t go.”

“It’ll be okay Daryl... you’ll be fine. Not enough but... glad I met you. Glad to get... time we did.”

“Ain’t enough. Want more time Paul! Please hang on. Ain’t far now, ya can do it.”

“No good Daryl,” he said gently, kindly, “won’t make it back. Only want... one thing. All you can do for me now... just stay like this... watch the sunset with me. Don’t make me... die alone. Stay like this.”

He held Daryl’s hand tighter. He could barely feel it at all. 

It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but Daryl managed a nod, stray tears finally escaping him. 

Because Paul was dying. He was dying and all he wanted was Daryl to hold him as he did, to not make him die on a bike speeding towards help he wouldn’t make it to. Paul was right, Daryl couldn’t save him, couldn’t do anything more for him now. But he could be with him. 

Daryl was so full of pain he thought he’d die with it as he forced himself to turn the bike off, Paul sighing with relief as the jolting stopped. It was too quiet with the engine off. Too easy to hear Paul’s shallow, laboured breaths. 

Daryl kicked the stand out and stabilised the bike with his legs, both arms free to wrap around Paul and hold him closer as the two of them watched the golden sunset. 

“Thanks Daryl,” he exhaled, voice so full of relief it sent more tears dripping from Daryl’s eyes. 

“Please don’t go,” he repeated numbly, knowing it was pointless but unable to stop himself. Paul just smiled, so kind and so tired. 

“Wish I... wasn’t. Don’ wanna... leave you. But it’ll be okay Daryl. Promise. Be okay, please, for me. ‘M not scared Daryl... just a... new world after all.”

Daryl couldn’t speak around the lump in his throat, Paul’s form blurring through his tears. He blinked them away in time to see Paul’s weak smile, face bathed in the last warm light of the setting sun. Then he let his head drop against Daryl’s shoulder, eyes closed. 

Daryl held him close and pressed kisses to the top of his head, everything in him focusing on the shallow, slowing inhales and exhales, memorising how it felt to hold him in his arms for as long as he could. 

He felt it when Paul died. It was so simple, so quiet, just a small exhale with no inhale. Just like that, Paul left.

A thin whine of pain escaped him as he held all that was left of Paul tight in his arms, slumping over him as he sobbed. Paul was gone now. He was gone and the world felt empty and cold. 

He wanted to just stop, for _everything_ to just stop. He wanted the world to acknowledge that it’d just lost something truly unique, truly good. That Daryl had. But the world never worked like that, it just carried on spinning.

With a shuddering breath, Daryl sat up, moving Paul so it was easier to see his face. He didn’t look like he was sleeping, death never did, but he looked peaceful. More than anything though, he just looked _gone_. It wasn’t Paul in his arms anymore, it was just an empty shell, all the life and spark and fire that was Paul moved on to somewhere else. 

Paul was gone and Daryl had one more thing to do before he could fall apart. 

He forced himself to let go of Paul, one arm going for the knife strapped to his leg. The knife Paul had gifted him. Fitting really. 

Daryl let Paul’s head stay rested on his shoulder, one arm holding him as the other gripped his knife. Forcing himself to keep breathing, Daryl pressed the knife against the back of Paul’s head.

It was okay. This wasn’t Paul anymore. Paul was gone. He was safe from all this now. 

Daryl looked up and watched as the sun finally finished setting. Then he pushed the knife in. 

 

\------

 

Maggie’s reaction would be the worst. Everybody was struck with horror and grief as Daryl rode into Hilltop with Paul, but he ignored them. He stopped his bike, kicked down the stand and carefully got off, his hands supporting Paul’s body until he was able to lift him into his arms once more. 

He should have felt lighter now. 

They didn’t have a morgue, but there was a small reading room in Barrington that was used to keep and prepare bodies for burial or burning. Daryl avoided looking at anyone, but he could hear grief spread through Hilltop, all eyes on Paul as Daryl slowly walked towards Barrington and into the reading room.

He ever so gently placed Paul down on the table, arranging his body neatly. It hurt so much Daryl had actually stopped feeling it.

He heard someone running down the hall, heard them stop in the doorway and let out a horrified, pained gasp. 

“No,” Maggie whispered, “no no, please no.”

She walked slowly forward and stopped beside him, staring down at all that was left of Paul. Daryl wished he could have changed Paul into something other than his blood drenched clothes before Maggie saw. Not like it’d really matter in the end. He was still dead. It would still hurt. 

He saw her reach out a shaking hand and cup Paul’s cold cheek, running a thumb over his pale skin. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, her free hand grabbing Daryl’s tight. He could barely feel it. Could barely feel anything. 

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she whispered. Then her legs shook and Daryl had to grab her. He wasn’t strong enough though and they both ended up sinking slowly to the floor. 

She was crying as she reached out to touch his own face, pulling him into a tight embrace. “I’m so sorry Daryl,” she breathed into his ear, words choked with pain and tears and worst of all, understanding. 

Wrapped in Maggie’s arms, at the foot of the table that held Paul’s body, Daryl finally gave in and allowed himself to fall to pieces. 

 

\------

 

It’d been a good funeral, as far as they go. All of Hilltop turned out, along with Michonne and Dante, the two thankfully making it back safe. Daryl was sure some nice words were said, things worthy of the person that Paul was, but Daryl would never know for sure. He’d long stopped listening, eyes fixed on the shrouded figure lying besides the freshly dug grave. 

It wasn’t Paul, was just an empty body, but as Dante and Earl had carefully lowered the figure into the hole and began to cover it with dirt, Daryl had to stop himself from rushing over, from stopping it, stopping everything. He’d be all alone down there, alone and in the dark. Paul was pure light, he didn’t deserve to be forever in the darkness. 

They finished covering him over and slowly, quietly, everyone left, only Daryl staying beside the new grave next to Glenn’s. 

He sank slowly to sit on the ground, digging his fingers into the soil of the place Paul would rest forever and holding it in his hand. He wanted so badly to say something, some perfect parting words, some way of verbalising all he felt. There were no words though, nothing to ever neatly package the emotions inside him. 

But Paul never needed his words to be perfect, as long as they were real. 

“Hope you’re in that next world Paul,” he choked out quietly, stubbornly unstoppable tears wetting his cheeks. “Hope it’s one you want. Happy and safe. Hope- hope we’re together there, or that maybe there’s a space for me.”

Daryl never really considered the possibility of there being something or somewhere after death. He was too practical, only believing fully the things he could experience, but he found himself hoping now. Didn’t seem fair that they never got a real chance of it in life, that timing and fear and bad luck always seemed to get in the way.

It was nice to believe that there was something else out there and when the lights finally went out, he could go and find Paul.

He didn’t say anything more, he couldn’t. He just sat next to Paul’s grave and listened to the constant hum of activity in Hilltop. Daryl still felt it should be silent, that everyone should just stop what they were doing, but he knew Paul wouldn’t want it any other way. All he ever wanted was for their communities to strive and grow, to beat the shithole of a world and make it something good again. 

Daryl stayed there for hours, grateful that he was left to it, that no one came to try and pull him away. He’d get up and leave when he was ready. For now he just wanted to stay with Paul, just a little longer. 

When night finally set in, Daryl knew it was time to leave, no matter how much he wanted to just lie down there and never move. He let the dirt still clutched in his hand fall to the ground as he slowly heaved himself to his feet. He took another long look at Paul’s grave, at the simple wooden cross baring his name, at the fresh earth that covered him. 

Daryl would keep fighting, he didn’t know any other way. He’d help them bring down the Whisperers, would make sure the communities were safe. He’d kill Beta himself, slowly and painfully. 

Whatever happened though, there was something in him beyond the burning agony and grief that told him there was somewhere else, somewhere he hoped to find Paul again. When it was time for it to all come to an end for him, he knew Paul would be waiting. 

Leaving Paul’s grave was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Each step away from where he was resting sending agony shooting through him. Paul wasn’t there anymore, not really. Daryl would wait, would do whatever was needed to keep Paul’s dream alive, then he’d find him again. Parallel universe, afterlife, fucking reincarnation, whatever it was he didn’t care. As long as they got another chance. 

They were unlucky in this life. Maybe they wouldn’t be in another. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just... so sorry. This was basically written in one night with me sobbing my eyes out as I listened to Hozier's song Shrike on repeat. I've not been able to stop thinking about the potential spoiler so decided to try and write it out instead. 
> 
> Everything hurts and I'm sorry. My tinfoil hat is still firmly in place but I just needed to get this out. Hope you guys 'enjoyed' it! Drop me a comment, even if it's just to shout at me :) xxxx


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